


Penne for your Thoughts

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: "Tremors", Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Army Ranger Phil Coulson, Audrey's Cafe, Awkward Flirting, Bad Puns, Car Accidents, Chef AU, Chef Phil, Clint Barton is Jason Walsh, Cook Clint, Cooking, Cooking Competition, Cooking Lessons, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Jason Walsh - Freeform, Kinda, Little Skye, M/M, Medical Trauma, Minor Character Death - Audrey, Minor panic attacks, Navy SEAL Nick Fury, Phil has glasses, Phil has tattoos, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recipes, Sexy Phil, Sniper Clint Barton, Soldier Clint Barton, Tattooed Phil, Tattoos, Therapy, anxiety medication, crazy eggs by, dad phil, food jokes, medical marijuna, mention of car accidents, quiet Skye, recipe theft, selective mutism, televised competitions, therapist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Phil Coulson's had a lot on his hands since losing his wife two years ago. He's juggling his job as head chef of their restaurant Audrey's with being a single parent to their daughter Skye, and to make matters worse his finances are starting to take a hit when his competition Hydra suddenly begins putting out dishes that look suspiciously familiar. When a televised cooking competition offers him the chance to win enough money to save his business he can't refuse, even though he has some pretty crippling anxiety. How he's going to survive this he has no idea.Enter one Clint Barton; a gorgeous former Marine with some issues of his own - the worst of which seems to be a penchant for truly horrible food puns. Phil thinks he's doing him a favor when he hires him on as a busboy, but it soon becomes clear that Phil's the one getting the better end of the deal.





	1. Chapter 1

Clint loves the sounds of the kitchen. 

He shouldn't, but there it is. 

See, a kitchen is all noise, all clash and clatter and bang, pop hiss sizzle like a page out of a comic book. It's the sound of pans and plates, the sound of line cooks and bus boys and dishwashers shouting back and forth over each other, the sound of joy and weariness and annoyance and passion. 

A good kitchen is everything like a warzone and nothing like it at all. 

After an IED cut his last deployment (and nearly his life) short, he's lucky he can hear any of it. 

Clint's hearing has never been great. By-product of an abusive father who swung a little too hard a little too often, you know? It was his mom who taught him sign language and how to read lips when he was five, after his kindergarten teacher expressed concern and dangerous interest. She taught him to cook then too, to love the way food could reach every other sense he had; sight, smell, taste, and touch. He got six years of that, six short years before dear old dad wrapped the car around a tree and took it all away. 

Eleven year old Clint didn't get to spend much time in kitchens after that. Not in foster care or group homes or later, the circus. His attention had turned to marksmanship and easy money, getting him into trouble and getting him noticed, right up to the day he got caught driving a get-away car for his brother in a poorly-planned gas-station heist that saw Clint picked up by the cops and Barney disappearing from his life for the last time. 

Still a minor, no family and, miraculously, no prior record, the judge offered to drop the charges if Clint went to bootcamp, and that was the end of that. He faked his way through all the tests, joined the Marines, and eventually became one of the best black-ops snipers his commanders had ever seen. 

Then bad intel has him stepping down on a bomb while his team is rescuing billionaire weapons-designer Tony Stark and Clint's seventy percent hearing becomes seventy percent loss. 

His recovery takes months, nearly a year. He broke his leg, his ribs, hell nearly everything all along his left side. The doctors told him he might never walk unaided again, never shoot again, but he defies them all. He works tirelessly through endless rounds of physical therapy until he's healed as best he'll ever be, and then he's sent home. 

He's given a Purple Heart for getting himself blown up, and a Medal of Honor for saving the lives of his team and the life of Tony Stark. 

He's also given the name of a psychologist, and a hefty check to make up for the fact that an administrative mistake, a clerical error nearly got him killed. 

He's thirty six and he's effectively retired. 

He goes back to New York and moves in with Natasha, the beautiful red-headed Russian he'd met in boot camp and never forgotten. They'd clicked in a way Clint never had with anyone else, and they kept in touch all through their deployments. He'd even been in love with her for a little while, once, before he realized that he cared for her more like a sister, like true family, something he'd never really had. Nat eventually left the National Guard and made a career shift to homicide detective, something she's exceptionally good at, and that, along with the money Clint will be collecting on a weekly basis until the day he dies, is more than enough to pay for a gorgeous, sun-drenched apartment in the East Village. 

He finds himself alone most days. Nat's job keeps her busy, and when they've got a case it sometimes seems like she doesn't come home at all. Clint doesn't mind that much except that he's slowly going insane with nothing to do. The only thing he feels obligated to do is keep his appointments with his shrink, and he can only justify spending so much time in the gym. The empty hours are slowly starting to eat away at him like a corrosive acid and he feels at all kinds of loose ends, so much so that Nat actually starts to complain about his bitching. She tells him to get a hobby, to get a job, to get laid, which only makes him laugh and feel a tiny bit better. 

He knows he's kind of a mess – he doesn't expect anyone would care to put up with him right now; roommate, boss, or boyfriend. 

Eventually it gets so bad that he starts thinking about getting a dog – which he knows is a bad idea since Nat's allergic and he doesn't actually know anything about being a pet owner, but he feels so gross bumming around all day that it starts to feel gritty against his skin, like he hasn't showered in a couple days. Stupid, cause it hasn't even been two months yet and the doc is still nervous about the state of his leg and psych is _really_ nervous about the state of his head, but Clint's in desperate need of something to do with his hands, something real to ground him. 

He thinks about taking up archery again, but he's not ready for it. 

He's not ready to face that yet, not ready to pick up a weapon, to aim and fire. 

He tried going to the range once and nearly hyperventilated before he'd even stepped in the door. 

His therapist says it happened because he doesn't trust himself anymore, because he blames himself for the mistakes of others over in Afghanistan. 

Clint just tries not to think about it at all. 

He makes sure he doesn't mope after that failed attempt. Nat would kill him if he did; it's a good thing she doesn't want kids of her own cause her mothering absolutely sucks. She tries – he supposes that's what counts – but after two weeks suffering her 'help' when he first got out of the hospital he knows he can't take any more. She wants to move in with her firefighter boyfriend Bucky, he knows she does, but he can't seem to get rid of her no matter what he tries. He's got a routine, makes his appointments, showers, runs, makes sure he eats even if it's only cereal and toast, scrambled eggs if he's feeling crazy, but nothing quite convinces her he's ok. 

It's probably the eggs that give him away. 

Clint cooks, he _loves_ to cook, and he's good at it, but it's eggs he likes to go wild with, experiment with. He'll add everything plus the kitchen sink to his eggs – peppers and crushed pretzels are his favorite combination thus far – because it's fun and it's silly and it's relaxing. Feeding people is something he's always _felt_ , somewhere deep inside his chest where more tender emotions lie. It's a safe place like his archery, like his bow, but it's softer somehow, more private. He watched his mother express her love by feeding others and thinks it's probably that association that makes cooking seem a more delicate thing than shooting. 

It's counter-balance: creation to destruction, calming to excitement, settling to passion. 

Clint could stand in the middle of a kitchen, hear and see the war zone around him, and be perfectly still. 

Then again, perhaps it's not so different from being a sniper. 

That said, he's never cooked professionally. 

It's a home hobby, a downtime treat, and yet he can't seem to find it even when he's listing around the apartment staring out windows unable to calm himself. 

Nat thinks it's the PTSD, or the anxiety, thinks it's the soldier in his head getting restless. 

Russian superstition, but he thinks she might have a point. 

Too bad admitting that makes her think she's right, which only leads to more concern. He knows she's worried, that if he doesn't feed that soldier, or quell it or... something, that he'll just get worse, go crazy and then go postal. He doesn't tell her that she's right, that it is getting worse for fear she'll feel the need to take his recovery upon herself again, so he keeps it to himself, keeps to his routine, but she's too observant for her own good. 

She sees it, he knows she does. 

He just doesn't realize he's run her to her wit's end. 

They wind up at an upscale little eatery called Audrey's, an elegant restaurant with a fancy menu that still maintains a comfortable and unpretentious atmosphere. It's bright and open, lots of windows, nothing too cheesy like table-candles or lush velvet. Instead there's delicate table clothes with lacy, scalloped edges, Mason jars on each table filled with fresh-cut flowers, pale blonde hardwood and dishes edged in lacey floral patterns. 

It's gorgeous, and the smells coming from the kitchen make Clint's stomach growl for the first time in a long time. 

They're seated in the back half of the restaurant, a half-level down from the entrance where they can see the line through a long glass window. Clint's staring, he knows he is, but he can't help himself. He's drawn to the movement and the colors, the flash and dart and noise of it all, audible even with his bad ears. Natasha is smirking at him over the top of her menu, looking at him slyly, and he rolls his eyes just to prove to her that he knows exactly what she's doing. 

He saw the sign in the window when they came in – Now Hiring. 

"Real subtle Tash," he mutters, unfolding his own menu and scanning the café's lunch offerings with an eye that's more critical than hungry. 

"Subtle doesn't work with you," she fires back, putting down the menu and folding her knees delicately beneath the table. "Get the short ribs. You'll like them, and you are still too skinny little bird." 

Clint narrows his eyes, knows she's right and that he can hardly argue the point, but he'd actually been looking forward to a hearty meal before she'd brought it up. Tossing his menu onto the table, he leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, lets her order for them both and makes sure she sees his attitude. He hates being coddled and cajoled like a child, probably because he never was as a kid, and he's never handled certain kinds of attention very well. Natasha knows this, but seems determined to heap it on him anyway. 

She kicks his good ankle sharply beneath the table as the waitress walks away, a loving gesture that still hurts like a bitch. 

"Don't be like that," she sniffs, lifting her glass of water for a short, pointed sip. "I love you, but you need to do something besides pace around the apartment all day." 

"I do plenty," he grumbles, forcing himself to meet her unamused eyes. "PT, psych appointments, gym..." 

"Yes, and you are doing very well," she says, suddenly gentle and reassuring. "Besides the pain your physical therapist says you are nearly one hundred percent, no?" 

"Not hardly," Clint scoffs, stretching his leg beneath the table. 

As far as things went he'd gotten lucky; his arm, his elbow and his shoulder and all his fingers, his face had missed the brunt of the blast that had shattered his ankle and his lower leg. He'd still been hurt of course, but it was nothing like the mess his lower body had become. It had taken ages to pin him back together, to heal the bone into some semblance of what it was, and even longer for him to walk. He might have been a cripple for the rest of his life if it weren't for Tony Stark and his misplaced sense of gratitude – the genius had turned from weapons to med tech so fast he'd taken the world by storm, and Clint had been the target of his first project. The man had welded him back together and left the rest to Clint, the endless hours of growing back his muscled and relearning how to move, rediscovering the nerves that still screamed at him in pain sometimes. 

His hip and his knee and his ankle still all ache sometimes; when a thunderstorm rolls in or when he pushes himself too hard, hell sometimes just on bad days. 

Days like that his limp comes back, along with the flashbacks and the nightmares and the depression, and he feels like he hasn't made any progress at all. 

Days like today aren't so bad. 

Days like today he's calm and fairly settled, in control of his emotions. He can look back at the broken mess that his body and his mind had been those first few weeks coming out of his medically induced coma and acknowledge how much work, how much blood and sweat and tears he's put in to putting himself back together. 

Maybe he is still a little skinny, maybe he hasn't quite put back on all his muscle yet, but he's a far cry from the weak, fragile thing he'd been. 

Clint blinks several moments later when the waitress returns and places a steaming, fragrant plate down in front of him, realizes that he's lost himself in thought, in memory, and that Natasha has allowed him the time. He casts her a small smile of thanks which she returns before tucking into her panini, leaving Clint to his own lunch. The plate is beautiful in a simple, homey way, none of that hipster-fancy, Instagram-worthy bullshit. The glossy short ribs are served over a soft cheddar polenta with a thick demi-glace, and the smell sets Clint's appetite on fire. 

The first bite is heaven and has his eyes rolling back in his head. 

Natasha is laughing at him silently when he recovers, diving in immediately for another taste. 

"This is _amazing,"_ he moans around a mouthful. 

To hell with good manners; this might be the best thing he's eaten in forever. 

"Everything is," she says with uncharacteristic praise, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin. "The chef here is incredible – I heard he's going to be on the next episode of Restaurant Wars." 

"Wait seriously?" Clint asks, fork halfway to his mouth. "I love that show!" 

"I'm aware," Natasha drolls flatly. "The state of my DVR is a disgrace. And to think, you could be a part of it." 

"Woah, I don't wanna be on TV," Clint balks, holding up his hands as his heart gives a painful thud. 

"You wouldn't be," she points out. "The chef would be. The restaurant would be. You'd just get to see it all happen." 

Clint's silent for a minute, stares at his plate. 

It's true that he loves cooking, he's good at it, but he doesn't have any formal training, doesn't even have any professional experience. He's a soldier, a sniper, a cook not a chef. He's never produced anything like what he's eating right now, though now he's wondering if he could, if he might try. 

It's also true that he loves Restaurant Wars, has watched since the show first came on. A reality competition, each six-episode segment features two restaurants that already have an existing competition for business between them, offering the winner a significant cash prize as well as media exposure and the definitive ranking as the better of the two. It's dramatic as hell and there's always more to it than just pitting one recipe against another, but it's fun. 

"You really want me out of the house that bad?" he asks, and Natasha cocks a delicate eyebrow. 

"I think you need something to do with your time, with your hands," she says. "A distraction. And if it cannot be your bow yet, why not this? Besides, I'd rather you get a job than come home to find you've cracked and gone out collecting strays off the streets." 

"Yeah, then you'd really have to move in with Barnes and make it official," he teases. 

Natasha only stares. 

"Finish your food," she says, picking up her sandwich. "Ask for an application on the way out." 

"Fine," he mutters, stuffing another bite in his mouth and turning to watch the chefs work behind the glass. "But if I have to brush up on my cooking skills you're doing all the dishes." 

"Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking inspiration for _Audrey's_ from Meli Cafe in Chicago. It's awesome! 
> 
> I am in no way suggesting that a kitchen is anything like a real war zone or the work our military men and women do. This is a comparison Clint is making, and no offense is meant.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil Coulson's life is an endless loop of reliable routine. It's the only thing that keeps him going some days, the fact that he knows exactly what's coming next; what he needs to do, where he needs to go, who he needs to be. 

Every week, Monday through Friday, he gets up at six am and wakes his daughter Skye. Those mornings he gets to just be Papa, responsible for getting her fed and dressed and ready for school before walking her up the block to the bus stop. 

From seven thirty to ten he's Phil, with no responsibility to anyone but himself. Even now, two years later, he has to spend that two and a half hours bracing himself to face his own day. He runs and lifts, incorporates a few of his old PT exercises into his routine, and then spends twenty minutes meditating and running through his positive affirmations. Some days all he wants to do is lock the doors, crawl back into bed and stay there, but the routine is so deeply ingrained by now, the disapproving voices of his medical and mental health teams so loud in the back of his mind that his body often carries him through it before he can argue. 

Ten to eleven he's Cheese, engaged in a standing business meeting with his best friend and business partner Nick Fury, and that hour might be the easiest. He's losing money, his livelihood is being threatened, and his cross-street competition has begun producing dishes suspiciously similar to his own in the last few months, but at least for those sixty minutes he feels most like himself as he plans and strategies and works for a way to save his job and his home. 

At eleven o'clock, he slips on his chef's coat, rolls up his sleeves, and steps out into the restaurant he'd opened with his late wife, a sour, cramping pain in his stomach and an ache in his chest that he's beginning to suspect won't ever go away. 

Some days are better than others. 

Some days are worse. 

On worse days Skye refuses to speak a single word, to him or anyone else. On worse days, his ribcage tightens with phantom pain and his lungs ache, and he feels like he can't get enough air no matter what he tries. On worse days he wakes up panting from nightmares, ghost-walking through his day haunted by the memory of two hours suspended in a mangled minivan; his chest pierced by the fractured steering column, his wife hanging still and silent from her seatbelt, and his five year old daughter screaming from the back seat. 

Days like that all he can do is his best, even if most of the time his best doesn't feel like nearly enough. 

Today, today hasn't been so bad. 

Skye had offered him a mumbled goodbye as she climbed the bus steps, and he'd managed a full six miles on the treadmill for the first time since the accident without feeling like he was going to collapse. He takes his regular half-dose of anti-anxiety medication and feels ok, only checks the locks on his loft apartment twice before walking down the stairs and meeting Melinda May at the front door. Together they open Audrey's to the staff that will be arriving and he only scans the prep lists three times before allowing his friend and sous chef chase him out of the back of the kitchen and down the hall to the office where Fury is waiting for him. 

"You sure you're ready for this?" the man asks as he closes the door behind him, as gruff and blunt as ever. "Sign these papers and there's no backing out." 

"Don’t have much of a choice, do I?" he replies calmly, biting down the familiar, hot spike of panic. "I've got less than six months to pay off the forty thousand dollars I owe on this place Nick, or we're going to lose everything. I can't..." 

"Woah, easy there Cheese," his friend grumbles, and Phil catches his breath, shocked as always by how quickly and strongly the anxiety comes on. 

His heart is thumping hard behind the thick, ropey scar carved across his chest and he has to fist his hands to keep them from shaking. This is it, his world crumbling out from underneath him once again, and it's been coming for a while. Hard to keep up on the bills when you're confined to a hospital bed fighting for your life. Audrey's life insurance policy had just been enough to cover the hospital fees, and while the restaurant brought in plenty of revenue, two years of physical, cognitive, and speech therapy added up. He's fallen behind, can't catch up, and while there is a light at the end of the tunnel, Phil isn't sure if it's daylight or the light from the freight train about to run him down. 

Phil counts his breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, deliberately relaxes each muscle group until he can move again. Shakily he takes his seat, settles himself behind the wide oak desk that has always managed to make him feel calmer. Fury is watching him surreptitiously – a feat given that he only has the one eye – but doesn't ask if he's alright. He's never been one to coddle Phil or to indulge his nervous habits, his panic attacks, something Phil has come to appreciate immensely over time. It means he can take a minute to catch his breath, to steel himself before he looks up, move straight on to business without mentioning the moment at all. 

"They've been trying to get me on the show for months," he says, opening the desk drawer and pulling out the thick sheaf of papers that constitutes the contract he's been offered by Restaurant Wars. "In another year I might not have a restaurant to fight for." 

"But you know why they're pushing this," the man growls. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, kicked back in his chair, long leather coat creaking as he moves. "They want the story Phil. You ready to give it?" 

Phil barks a bitter laugh. 

"No," he admits freely. "Not in the slightest. But fifty thousand will get us out of the black Nick, all the way out of the black." 

"It's fifty thousand if you win Cheese." 

Phil cocks an eyebrow. 

"Think I can't?" he asks, a bit surprised by his friend's skepticism. 

"Your food, absolutely. But it's gonna be more than that Coulson, and I don't want you back at square one because you can't handle this." 

Phil doesn't respond. 

In truth he doesn't know if he _can_ handle this, suspects that some small part of him deep down fears he can't. He needs this money, needs to save his job and the restaurant named for his late wife, but he needs to be able to function too. He's been in a state that's left him nearly incapable of taking care of himself let alone his daughter, and he can't go there again. He's caught between a rock and a hard place, with nothing left to do but soldier forward and he knows it. 

Picking up a pen, he puts his final signature at the bottom of the contract and slides it across the desk. 

For a moment Fury just stares at him and Phil has to fight not to square his shoulders, not to lift his chin or straighten his spine. It would be a tell he can't bear to let slip, and when Fury nods, one short, sharp jerk of his head, he thinks he's succeeded. 

"I'll get this off today," he says, tucking the papers away inside his coat. "I'd expect a phone call before the week is out." 

"I don't doubt it," Phil sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Seems like they've been calling every other day since..." 

"Maybe not _that_ long." 

Phil huffs, shakes his head. 

"Anyway. They said they needed an answer by the end of the month, so I'd expect they'd like to start filming as soon as possible." 

"That's gonna affect business. There's already rumors floating around – most of the regulars are happy enough, but all the shooting they do inside the place..." 

"Didn't know you were such a connoisseur Nick," Phil teases, pleased by the scowl the man shoots his way. 

"It's the wife," he grumbles, looking off to his right. "Ever since you got the offer it's all that's been on the damned idiot box." 

Phil chokes down a laugh, bites his lip to hide a smile. He and Fury are both former-military; Phil an Army Ranger and Nick a Navy Seal, but between the two of them only Fury has kept his bearing of badassery. Only his wife, the always-lovely and equally-bad-ass Maria Hill has ever been able to make him blush. 

"How is she?" 

"Fine. Caught up in another project, you know how she is." 

He does. Ever since her retirement Maria had been at a bit of a loose end until she'd discovered the world of Etsy and online crafts sales. It started with knitting and quickly evolved to crochet, with beaded keychains, watercolor prints, and miniature terrariums all making an appearance. Phil and Skye have been the unfortunate recipients of some of her early works, though he has to admit that she somehow manages to drastically improve her skills before moving on to the next new thing. 

"She wants you and Tremors over for dinner." 

Phil flicks Nick a look, as concerned by the nickname as the invitation. Nick's called Skye 'Tremors' since she was a toddler with a habit of thundering through the house like a herd of elephants, but ever since the accident, ever since she's started making herself as small and as quiet as possible, her reactions to the endearment haven't been quite the same. As far as the dinner offer goes, it's standing just like the business meeting, but it’s one that he doesn't keep nearly as often. It's hard enough for him to walk the single, straight block down to the bus stop, but to cross the entire city to Nick and Maria's townhouse... 

Most days it's too far, too much, too many things that he can't control and that could go horribly, tragically wrong. 

"Thank her for me," he says, getting to his feet and crossing the office to the wardrobe he keeps in the corner, pulling out a dark, charcoal grey chef's jacket and pulling it on over his t-shirt. 

"But you'll have to decline," Fury finishes. 

"Yeah," he mumbles, ducking his head as his cheeks warm, focusing on getting his buttons straight. "If she wants we can do something here this weekend..." 

"Not the point Coulson." 

"No, I... I know. And I'm ok, I _am_ , there's just... a lot going on right now." 

Fury sighs heavily, gets to his feet and claps him hard on the shoulder. 

"I know Cheese. And we're here for you and the kid, you know that." 

"Of course. Maybe, when this is over, we can... _I_ can work on it. For now I need to focus." 

"Phil Coulson on a mission. Hydra won't know what hit 'em." 

"Or maybe they will," Phil intones, a familiar, heavy suspicion settling onto his shoulders. "I don't know Nick; if I were a betting man I'd say we've got some kind of spy in the kitchen." 

"Yeah you and me both," Fury growls. "I still say we do an early performance review." 

"And let you sit in on it?" Phil chuckles, rolling up his sleeves. 

"Damn straight." 

"I'll think about it. Anything else?" 

"You'll be short staffed come next week," Fury rumbles, tapping at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket. "Reyes'll be going on leave. Bout damn time too – woman looks like she'll pop any minute." 

Phil smiles, his reactions mixed when he thinks of his pretty blonde prep-cook. Reyes is rapidly closing out her ninth month of pregnancy, working through all three trimesters with the same aggressive determination she brings to all things. She'd been with Phil for several years now, since before, and he's been dreading her loss ever since she put in for maternity leave five months ago. She'd originally meant to resign completely, intending to spend her child's first year as a stay-at-home mom, but Phil had been more than happy to negotiate her return at any time she chose. As an employee she was irreplaceable but the staff at Audrey's quickly became family, and it there would always be a place for her on his team. 

In the meantime, he still needs someone to take her place. 

"I'll put out an ad," he says, taking one last look in the wardrobe mirror to ensure he looks put together. That's his secret after all – if he looks put together on the outside no one will suspect how badly he's falling apart on the inside. "Shouldn't be too hard to find someone, even if it is last minute." 

"Damned economy," Fury grunts. "Just promise me no teenagers. The last one was a disaster." 

Phil shivers, pushes aside the memory of an entire, industrial sized pot of Friday night special hitting the floor. He'd had bolognese in places pasta sauce should never be, and he'd smelled like tomatoes for days. 

"Not a problem," he agrees vehemently. "No high-schoolers." 

Squaring his shoulders, he takes a deep breath and heads for the kitchen with ten minutes to spare, the relatively calm refrain of chaos promising an easy open. It's an illusion of courses, there's all kinds of disasters that can happen in a professional kitchen, but as far as things go, it's a fairly standard Wednesday. He doesn't see the sign Melinda has pasted in the front window near that doors, and he doesn't see the scruffy blonde who stops at the hostess' stand and asks for an application. 

It's probably for the best. 

He's got enough on his plate already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2017 - hooray! Happy New Year guys!


	3. Chapter 3

Friday's a bad day for Clint. 

At least, he _thinks_ it's going to be. 

He has nightmares all night long and feels drained when he wakes up, goes for his run anyways and gets back to the apartment an hour later trembling and damp through in a cold sweat. It's nerves, not the early summer heat, but he scrubs down hard in the shower anyway, rolling on a double-coat of deodorant before heading to his closet. 

When he'd asked for an application at the café two days before, he'd never expected it to go so far so fast. Sure, he'd been interested, maybe a little too eager the way he'd come home and practically stalked the place on Yelp, printed off his fairly short resume and returned the packet the next morning, but he wouldn't have thought he'd be invited back for an interview before the week was out. The woman who'd given and taken his application at the hostess' stand, a pretty woman of Asian descent with a calm, cool exterior that made Clint stand up a hell of a lot straighter, had seemed a bit surprised to see him back so soon, even more so when she scanned his abbreviated work history, those bits that used words like _specialist, redacted,_ and _classified._ The grin she'd leveled at him was fucking _predatory,_ and if that hadn't been enough to make his balls shrivel up she'd gone and invited him back to meet the chef. 

As Clint jerks at the hangers on the rack he considers what he knows about _Audrey's_ Phillip J. Coulson and breathes just a tiny bit easier. He's _definitely_ guilty of over-eager cyberstalking where the man himself is concerned - arousal hitting him low and hard as soon as the very first google image pops up- but more than that Clint hates walking into any situation blind. Knowledge is power and all that happy horseshit. He's attractive, ok, he can deal with that. At least knowing ahead of time means he won't swallow his tongue or trip over his own stupid feet when he actually meets the guy. 

Unfortunately he'd uncovered a lot more than he'd meant to and ended up feeling more than a little bad about it. Sure, there's plenty out there on the internet about the man's work, his restaurant and his food and his apparent flair for creative but homey dishes – and yeah, Clint is more a little impressed – but there's also this whole long sordid tale about how the man had been involved in a horrific car accident, how his wife hadn't survived, how the restaurant had suffered so badly for months afterward... 

Clint's feelings about all this are incredibly mixed. 

He's surprised by how quickly and sharply his hackles had risen in the man's defense – of course the business suffered, the man lost his wife and almost died you assholes! At the same time the whole thing makes him nervous, oddly squeamish. The one unfortunate glimpse he'd gotten of an old newspaper photo, a vivid black-and-white of a twisted wreck of van had him clamping a hand over his mouth, biting back the urge to vomit. He'd managed not to fall into a flashback, a panic attack but only just, and he hadn't gone back to his reconnaissance game after that. 

Now he's distracted, anxious, and wishing he had time to smoke a joint before he left. Technically no one can turn him down for dropping dirty since he _does_ have a prescription, but he'd really rather not have to go through the whole thing, explain _why_ he needs it. Sure, it's incredibly effective in his case - improves his nearly non-existent appetite, helps with the pain, and calms his nerves without the paranoia and heavy, tired feeling he gets from most pills – but being emotionally unstable is pretty much just as bad as being an unreliable stoner. 

Instead he bites his lip, drags on his nicest pair of black jeans and a deep blue button-down Nat had snuck into his closet, avoids the mirror and hits the front door. He's too scruffy, he knows it – needs a haircut and a shave and maybe a tie – but the damn things strangle him and he wonders if a part of him doesn't want to be turned away. He stops twice in the middle of the sidewalk and has to hold his breath to keep from turning round, heading back the other way, and the rough shouldering and muttered insults of the other New York pedestrians actually helps, bumps him forward and gets him moving again. 

By the time he gets there he's so distracted by the nerves that he just walks right up to the door, no hesitation at all, and doesn't that make absolutely no sense? 

It's stupid, but he'll get over it. 

The hostess he'd talked to – Melinda May, she'd told him – is standing just inside with a folder in the crook of her arm giving orders as the wait staff bustles around setting tables and taking down chairs, and for the first time Clint realizes he's here before the place actually opens. She pushes open the glass door with her free hand, without even looking and gestures him inside with a jerk of her chin even as she continues briefing the man standing next to her, and yeah, Clint's a little impressed. It bodes well that the place seems to be running like a top, smooth and efficient, and he's not ashamed to admit that he has a thing for efficiency, _competency._

He figures if anything he's got a pretty damn good reason to be. 

She doesn't give him much more than a nod in greeting before she's waving him to follow after her, and Clint falls into lock step as she marches him down a hallway. The man she'd been addressing follows along as well, his round face calm and easy behind his thin, wire-frame glasses, but there's a tension running through his shoulders that puts Clint's teeth on edge. It's a passive sort of bickering happening between them and he feels like he's interrupting, even though he hasn’t said a word, tried not to eavesdrop. When they finally pull up in front of a closed door, an office in the back, Melinda May finally turns to speak to him. 

"I'm sorry Mr. Barton, we've been a bit off track this morning," she apologizes, causing Clint to raise an eyebrow in surprise. "This is Jasper Sitwell, Coulson's sous chef." 

"Nice to meet you," Jasper nods, but he's distracted, fidgety, and Clint only has the time to nod back before he's touching Melinda on the shoulder and darting back down the hallway. 

"I'll catch you at the end of my shift May!" he calls over his shoulder, and the woman rolls her eyes. 

"Again, Mr. Barton, I should apologize," she says, opening the door and gesturing him inside. "One of our trucks is running behind and we're having a bit of trouble with one of the stoves. It's no excuse, but chaos _does_ disrupt routine." 

"If this is your chaos, I'd love to see your routine," Clint scoffs as he takes a seat in front of the wide oak desk. He startles a bit when he realizes what he's said, but May looks like she's biting back a smile, so he just swallows down the nerves and explains. "You gave yourself away – I hadn't realized there was an issue until you told me. You run a tight ship Ms. May." 

The woman cocks an eyebrow, tilts her head before nodding. 

"Just May is fine," she says, shuffling the papers in her arms, "Or Mel, if you prefer. Coulson will be in in a minute – would you like a drink while you wait?" 

"No, thanks." 

"Best of luck then." 

Clint almost calls her back when the door clicks quietly shut behind her. Stupid – he's never had an issue being alone before, with claustrophobia. He just... feels out of place here, _messy_ in this neat little office, and it's just as hard to stay put in that chair as it had been to walk over from the apartment. He very nearly gets up twice in the three to five minutes he's left there – even though it feels like forever his internal clock tells him it's not. Sitting still, being quiet; as an archer and a sniper that's something Clint can do, but outside of that, outside of work, outside of that easy, quiet headspace he hasn't been able to find since he got himself blown up, he's a loudmouthed, bouncy bastard and the nerves only make it worse. 

His knee is jiggling like machine-gun fire when the door opens behind him. He doesn't turn to look, but as soon as the man rounds the desk and comes into his peripheral vision he's on his feet at attention, ready to offer a handshake with a short nod and a respectful 'sir.' 

Whoever this man is, he's military, and one who was pretty damn high up the ranks. 

He's not Coulson. 

"At ease, kid," he barks gruffly, shaking Clint's hand firmly before settling behind the desk and waving Clint back toward his chair. "Anybody'd think you're still active military." 

"No sir," Clint shakes his head, biting his lip before continuing. "I just... see things better than most. Navy?" 

The man across from him, a large black man dressed in a long leather coat, glared at him with great interest, enough to make Clint want to squirm. A feat, considering the one eye, but there it was. 

"SEALs," he grunts, and it takes a minute for Clint to reconnect the word with their conversation, but leaves him impressed and a little awed. "Heard you were a Marine yourself." 

"Yes sir." 

"But not a grunt." 

"No, sniper." 

"Black ops?" 

"That's classified sir." 

For a minute the man just stares, then he barks a loud, choppy laugh and suddenly Clint feels infinitely better. Here, with another military man, a high-up, commander, he's safe and that's... that's stupid. He doesn't know this guy, he doesn't really know anything about SEALs, and he's got a dozen reasons, a couple of steel rods and about a million bolts not to trust any military command again, but trust issues were about the only ones he didn't have after 'the event.' 

Oh god, his therapist must be rubbing off on him. 

Blinking, Clint lets himself relax, allows himself to ease back in his chair and not be so damned alert. It's not easy, not something you can ever really do when you've trained yourself the way Clint has, but it's infinitely better than how he'd been a few minutes earlier, and the veritable badass of a Navy pirate sitting across from him seems far less intimidating than he had, though the laugh had done nothing to soften his edges. 

"Nick Fury," he introduces himself, and Clint ducks his head in acknowledgement. "Business partner. Most of the bullshit work is mine; Coulson prefers the cooking which means I do the numbers and the books." 

"But not the hiring and the firing." 

Clint very deliberately does not jump as the door behind him opens and a pleasant, teasing voice announces another man's presence. This time it is Coulson who rounds Clint's chair, and damn it he's just as handsome as his picture. It doesn't clobber him upside the head like it had the last time, his reaction tempered by the fact that the man had lost his wife in a pretty horrible way, but it's still there. The man is well built, trim waist but nice, broad shoulders underneath his dark grey chef's coat, killer forearms bared by rolled sleeves. Nice face, kind eyes, a mouth that just ticks at the corner with a wry sort of humor... 

Yeah, he's damn near exactly Clint's type. 

Shit. 

"I told you not to terrorize the applicants Nick," the man says, slipping behind the desk as Fury gets to his feet and moves toward the door. 

_"Applicant,_ single," Fury corrects. "May only sent the one back. Good enough reason to meet him right there. You've found yourself a Marine sniper Cheese – it's turning into a regular boys' club around here." 

"Don't let Mel hear you say that," Coulson scoffs, waving his business partner away, and Clint feels like maybe he's missed an inside joke but it doesn’t seem like it matters. Fury rolls his eyes, flips Coulson the bird over his shoulder, and pulls the door shut behind him. 

"Boys' club?" Clint asks, one eyebrow arched as Coulson flicks through his papers, his head ducked. 

"Hmm? Oh, yes, we seem to attract former-military around here. Nick's a SEAL, May and Sitwell were both Army..." 

Clint licks his lips, wants to know. 

"What about you?" 

"Me? Army Ranger. Phil Coulson, Mr..." 

Clint almost laughs the way the man slams to a dead halt, finally lifting his head and actually looking at him for the first time.

He knows the feeling.

Army Ranger, _damn._

"Barton," he says, offering his hand as that stupid, inappropriate bolt of hot attraction flushes through him one more time. "Clint Barton."


	4. Chapter 4

Fuck, he's gorgeous. 

The realization hits Phil hot and sharp in the gut, knocking his breath out of his chest in surprise. 

It's not that he's a man, just... 

Just that he hasn't felt anything like this since Audrey died. 

No lust, no bolt of sheer attraction, no desire to even _look..._

Nothing. 

It's unexpected and it's heady and it's _terrifying_ and for one long moment he doesn't know what to do, just sits there with his mouth open gaping at the man in front of him, all messy, golden hair and wounded, kaleidoscope eyes, broad chest and massive shoulders pulling his deep blue shirt just a tiny bit askew. His mouth curves just a bit, pretty mouth, but there's nothing cruel or smug about it and Phil doesn't feel like he's being teased. Then he holds out his hand and introduces himself like Bond and it's Phil's turn to smile. 

"Phil Coulson," he replies, unreasonably interested somewhere deep down by the man's firm, solid grip, the rough, unidentifiable calluses on his hand. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Barton." 

"Just Clint," he corrects. "Never was mister, and I'm not a sniper anymore." 

"Clint then," he nods, shuffling his mess into workable order. "I've read your resume; no history in the restaurant business?" 

"No sir." 

Phil flinches minutely, shakes his head. 

"No, don't do that," he argues, "If you've never been a mister I've never been an officer. Phil is fine, or Coulson, if you prefer. Boss, maybe." 

"You'd still hire me?" 

"Should I?" Phil counters, arching an eyebrow. 

The man across from him bites his lip but Phil just settles back in his chair, forces himself to relax and put Barton at ease. Elbows resting on the arms of his chair, he threads his fingertips together, lets his shoulders drop, even though there's a sudden tension running through him that threatens his very sanity. 

"Why did you apply?" he asks, partly to get the man talking and partly out of pure curiosity. 

It can't be just to torture him, to turn his head and twist up his stomach, to make his heart pound in his chest like a panic attack. 

"Honestly?" Clint asks, and then he shrugs, turns his face away. "I need the work." 

"I'm looking for somebody to bus and prep – it's not all that glamorous and I can't pay you all that much," he warns. "More competitive than minimum wage, but still..." 

Barton just huffs. 

"Between you and me I don't need the cash," he admits, and there's something like anger and irritation and shame in his voice that tempers Phil's reaction; oh, how horrible _that_ must be. "Consolation prize for getting blown up I guess." 

And well, what do you say to that? 

Nothing, thank god – at least he hadn't put his foot in his mouth with that one. 

He's staring now, he knows he is, fascination and admiration but no pity – he was a Ranger himself after all. No soldier wants pity. Whatever shows on his face causes Barton's cheeks to pink, makes him shrug before continuing on so fast and sharp Phil wonders if the man feels a need to blurt it all out while he can, wonders what it is that threatens to stop him. 

"I need the job," he says again, "I need something to _do._ Something with my hands, something that's... that's fast and moving and loud. It's, it's too slow, inside my head, too fucking _quiet..."_

The momentary silence that follows is long and thick and _stunned,_ but _fuck_ Phil knows exactly what he means. Phil _knows_ that silence, days when Skye refuses to speak at all and the silence hangs heavy on his shoulders, rings in his ears and dulls the cacophony of the restaurant around him, drags him down into nightmares where all he can hear are the cries of his distraught little girl and the complete and utter silence of his wife. He can't breathe and there's a rock beneath his breastbone, but then all of a sudden Barton's apologizing frantically and he can move again. 

"No, no it... it's ok," he manages to say around his tangled tongue, interrupting the man's panicked babble. "I get it." 

Clint goes abruptly silent as his eyes flash and his face shutters, but Phil just blows out a breath, centers himself. 

"Boys' club, remember?" 

That seems to soften the man a bit and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, a movement that's so boyish and bashful Phil actually doubts for a minute that he's sitting across from a former sniper, a black ops marine. 

"It's stupid," he mutters, looking away again and gesturing vaguely at his ears, the bright purple hearing aids Phil had somehow managed to miss before. "Deaf as a post anyway, shouldn't make a difference." 

"Does it?" 

Phil feels himself blush painfully, horrified by what's just come out of his mouth when Barton's head snaps around to stare at him. 

"Shit, sorry. I just... I hadn't even realized..." 

"It doesn't really," he denies after a moment of consideration, most likely of Phil himself and not his insensitive question. "Got some top-of-the-line bionic ears, plus I read lips like a pro. If you wanna turn me down, better to go with lack of experience." 

"I never said anything about turning you down," Phil counters. "But I do have to ask; if you're just looking for something to keep you busy, why this?" 

"I love kitchens," Clint answers him immediately, and the smile that spreads slowly across his face, the way his eyes go far away puts the truth to his words. "I love cooking. I'm not... I mean, I'm not like _you,_ I don't have any education or training or anything, it's just... something I used to do with my mom. Something that's always been... fun I guess. Kitchens were always a safe place." 

"Maybe more like me than you think then," Phil says gently. 

He hadn't missed that word, that one word – _safe._ It tells him more than he thinks Barton realizes, makes his heart squeeze in his chest. Audrey had... fuck, Audrey had had a thing about strays, a thing about collecting broken men and women and bringing them together, making them a family. Hell that was how _Audrey's_ had started in the first place, a little café where their friends, former military and ex-government could find exactly what Barton found in a kitchen – a safe place. 

The man across from him looks nothing so much like a stray; a skinny, scruffy blonde puppy in need of a meal and a home and a family and he knows right then and there that he can't turn him away. Audrey would have hired him on the spot, wouldn't let him leave without making sure he had a hot meal in his belly and a place to go first. 

Phil's eyes are stinging and his throat is tight and Barton is watching him having gone all kinds of pink, but he manages to swallow down the ache in his chest before he explains himself. 

"Everyone starts somewhere," he says, "Even me. My first memories are baking at my Mama's knee." 

The man looks up at Phil from beneath his lashes, seems to mull that over while Phil fights the wave of nausea that his roiling, mercurial emotions bring on, then shrugs again. 

" 'M not a chef," he denies easily. "I'm pretty good but I'm just a home cook. I'm not like, Michelin material." 

Phil laughs, unexpected but real and full and temporarily unblemished by pain and nerves and insecurity. 

"Modest _and_ proud," he chuckles, and Clint huffs a short laugh of his own. 

"Just honest," he says, shaking his head. "Guess it doesn't really matter if you're only looking for a busboy. I'm good with knives though, and I can balance a stack of plates on a tightrope." 

"Tightrope huh?" Phil asks, and something sparkles mischievously in Barton's eyes. 

"You got it Boss," he grins with a wink. "And a unicycle. Grow up in a circus and you learn all kinds of things." 

Phil gulps. 

He's not sure he believes Barton or if it's just a line, but either way it makes him flush, heat and electricity coursing through the pit of his belly. 

It scares him, and a part of him hates himself for feeling it at all. He wonders if he shouldn't turn the man away just for this, preempting the colossal train wreck that's to come, and a part of him wonders if he isn't just blowing things out of proportion. 

He has a habit of doing that. 

"Honestly I've just always loved a good kitchen atmosphere," Barton says with a shrug, and Phil realizes he's been quiet too long. "It's bright and it's lout and everybody's always moving and shouting and laughing and it's just... it's just good you know?" 

"I know." 

He doesn't mean to say it, even if it's true, but damn, does he know. 

"You know I've only been here once?" Clint says suddenly, an abrupt change of subject that Phil hadn't known he needed until it happened. "I'd never even walked by before the other day. My friend Nat, she brought me. Didn't want to come." 

"Ouch." 

"No, not... like that," he backtracks, and Phil lets the corner of his mouth tip in a reassuring smile. "Just... I'm kinda messed up?" 

It comes out like a question and Phil tilts his head, surprised by the admission. 

"I mean you should know that, before you hire me," Clint says, and he's not blushing this time but his eyes are stuck on the desk, even though his chin is high. "I got... blown up, a couple years ago. Rods and pins holding my leg together, StarkTech keeping all the pieces where they should be. I can work, I _can,_ but I have... bad days. I get... quiet, sometimes. And some days the pain is..." 

Chewing his lip, he suddenly lifts his gaze and blurts out what he clearly feels is a sin. 

"I smoke pot. I mean, I have a prescription, and I don't do it a lot, just... when it's bad. And I would _never ___come to work high, just... it's the only thing that helps. Pills don’t work; make me sick and shaky and with the weed I actually _want_ to eat..." 

Blowing out a breath, he turns away and scrubs a hand through his hair. 

"Wow," he scoffs, "Jesus. Did _not_ mean to unload all that on you. But I should probably tell you, before you have me escorted out, the other day was the first time I finished a full meal in a long time. Your food is amazing man, and that's not just sucking up so you don't have me prosecuted. Seriously." 

"Clint..." 

"No really, it's fine," the man says, getting to his feet and waving him off. "I can find my way back..." 

_"Barton."_

Clint snaps his mouth shut, blinks at him, and falls into a natural parade rest. Phil feels like kind of an ass, because while he'd never officially been an officer, as a Ranger he'd certainly been a team leader and had cultivated a vocal tone that demanded attention and obedience. 

"Will you sit back down for a minute?" he asks, more gently this time. "Please?" 

Clint stares at him with those huge, haunted eyes, hesitates before carefully easing himself back into the chair, cautious and ready to bolt. 

Phil sighs, swallows hard, makes the decision to talk about the thing he never talks about, even though he doesn't know why. 

"I don't know if you know what happened, two years ago," he begins, and it's his turn to look away, to keep his eyes on the desk between them. "I was... in an accident. I lost my..." 

Squeezing his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath. 

It's still hard to say. 

"I lost my wife. I was injured, badly, put the steering column through my chest. It's not the same, but... I know what it's like to have bad days." 

Tapping his fingers against the desk, he forces himself to breathe and pushes away the emotion, detaches himself from it, because if he doesn't he's going to have a panic attack right there. 

"I don't have an issue with you having bad days, or with you having quiet days, or with you smoking medical marijuana," he says determinedly. "As long as it doesn't cause an issue in the kitchens it's not a problem. And since we're being honest here, you're not the only one." 

Looking at Clint he makes sure he catches the man's eye, can practically feel his wife standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders. 

"Everyone here has a story Clint," he says carefully. "Everyone here has their bad days. We're all kinda messed up, and it doesn't really make sense but we manage to help each other. Manage to make up for it. We're _family_ here, always have been. It's what Au... It's what Audrey built. What she wanted, when we started all this. Take this job you'll be a part of that family, whether you want to be or not." 

Clint's staring and looks stunned, and at this point Phil honestly doesn't know what to say or think or feel. This was supposed to be a fifteen minute interview at most, and has already lasted nearly half an hour, gone further and deeper than any conversation Phil has had with his therapist in the last ten months. A part of him wants to run, wants to just get up and leave the office and find a broom closet to freak out in, and he's pretty sure that some time today he will, but for now Barton looks as anxious and unsure and as fearfully hopeful as Phil does. 

He can only offer him a weary, half-hearted smile 

"I just feel like you should know that, before I hire you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a 'flashback' of a car accident and a short panic attack.

Phil holds it together just long enough to set a return date with Barton and shoo him out of his office into May's capable hands before breaking down. Nearly his entire hour of prep before open has been eaten up – a shocking realization – so he doesn't have much time to work through the panic and get himself back to rights before he's needed in the kitchens. Confident that Melinda will put a spoon or a take-out container in Barton's hands before pushing him out the door and out of the way, he feels like he has the permission, the go-ahead to have a meltdown. 

He leaves the door ajar. That's the first thing. And it should be weird but it makes a fucked-up kind of sense. He can't stand being boxed in when he's like this, can't handle being restrained. The next thing is to unbutton the top of his chef's jacket and open his collar. He needs to breathe, needs any and all pressure off his chest, and as soon as he's collapsed in his chair he leans as far back as he can, starts counting his inhales and exhales. He clicks on the radio and turns up stupid pop-rock, music he absolutely hates because it gets stuck in his head but that's very effective at keeping the flashbacks at bay. 

It's the sounds he remembers most about the crash. 

The tick of the car engine. The silence from the passenger seat. The screech of crunching, twisted metal and the sobs and screams of his daughter. 

But Carly Rae Jepson and Taylor Swift do a strange yet remarkable job of drowning them out, god bless 'em. 

The panting comes first despite the breathing exercises, then the cold sweats, then the uncontrollable shakes. He gets triggered by a lot of things now a days – most of which he's aware of and prepared to avoid. Makes it a little easier somehow, knowing that it's coming, but every once in a while it still catches him off guard, and Clint Barton has managed to do that. He can't think enough in the middle of it all to figure out why, but later when he blinks himself out of it to find his head between his knees, his brow damp and his fingers digging into the thick, knotted scar on his chest he'll be able to sort it all a little more logically, and it makes sense in a horrible, stupid, utter nonsense sort of way. 

He's just opened up to that man, a total stranger, more quickly than he's opened up to anyone in a long time. 

He doesn't talk about the accident, doesn't talk about Audrey, not to Nick or Mel or his therapist, not even to Skye, but he'd told Clint. That unnerves him, even though he thinks that the same thing probably happened to Barton. From the way he'd panicked a little himself Phil doesn't think he'd meant to blab everything he had either. It doesn't really make him feel any better. It had been unprofessional, and far too familiar, inappropriate all around even if it had all been the truth, if _Audrey's_ was a weird little humane society for Ex-Military Types and Their Issues. 

Barton will fit right in - he obviously has some issues of his own. 

Phil's not sure what it says about the man that he seems so comfortable with them all, that he would lay all his sins out on the table like that for a job that he doesn't really need. Phil – he'd been vague, hinted at larger problems beneath the surface of his shiny NY Chef image, but Barton... 

Barton had put it all out there. 

Marine sniper, blown up, serious medical issues, lasting physical pain... 

Bad days, mental scramble, medical marijuana, too quiet, too quiet, not enough noise... 

This time Phil catches the panic before it gets too far, forces himself to take deep, slow breaths and clutches at the edge of the desk hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The small bite of pain helps center him, helps him pull back. 

He's identifying too much. 

It's his issue not Barton's, just like the attraction. 

The man can't help how he looks, not all that much anyway, and it's certainly not his fault that he's Phil's type. 

Phil knew he was solidly bisexual by the time he'd started dating in his late teens, a strong 50/50 preference. He'd always been open about that fact, especially with Audrey. It had never once been an issue that came up during their marriage - to her fidelity was an all or nothing issue anyway; only her or not her at all, all of her or none of her. Man or woman it wouldn't have mattered, and Phil hadn't had eyes for anyone else anyway. Audrey was his sun, blinding bright, impossible to look away from. Petite and beautiful, soft curves, auburn hair and an energetic, bubbly disposition – she was everything he loved in a woman. 

Men were a different story. 

Broad chests, heavy muscles, big, powerful shoulders, blonde and a little scruffy – that's what he liked. Tough, strong, maybe a little rough-and-tumble but... sweet. 

Barton damn near fits that bill to a T, but it still shocks him, surprises him that he even noticed at all. 

It's been so long since he's felt this, since he's looked at anyone and felt any kind of anything. His therapist says he's punishing himself, that it's the guilt that's checking his impulses, but up until he'd sat down behind his desk an hour ago there had honestly been no impulses to check. 

All of a sudden it feels like that might be changing, and that scares him. 

_That_ makes him feel guilty. 

He's lost the love of his life. 

He was the one driving that night. 

He's a complete and utter mess, their _daughter_ is a mess, and he doesn't know how to fix himself, let alone her. 

How can he... 

Shutting that line of thought down hard – because he _knows_ where that shit leads – he makes a phone call to his therapist and schedules an emergency session for later that evening when he takes his break between the lunch and dinner shifts. It will cut in on his time with Skye, and he'll have to get Nick to watch her, but he knows his limits, knows how he reacts when he pushes them. If he doesn't go he'll fall apart completely, maybe not tonight but before the week is out, and then he'll do something stupid, like call Barton up and fire him before the man even starts. His therapist fits him in – he always does – and after Phil hangs up he digs into his desk drawer for his anxiety medication and dry swallows the recommended dose. 

It will take a while to kick in. 

He'll need to actually eat something if he doesn't want it to come roiling back up on a wave of stomach acid in twenty minutes. 

He needs to open in what, three minutes? 

It's long enough. 

Long enough to catch his breath, to straighten his jacket and button it back up and push everything else aside but tickets and lunch, the brisket in the smoker and the Cabernet in the wine cellar and more of that damn Bolognese. 

He's good at compartmentalizing. 

Barton's gone and Jazz is on the line and Mel's got the hostess stand, Skye is safe at school... 

He can handle this. 

It's time to open.

**AVAVA**

He's got glasses.

Glasses and _tattoos._

A delicate, detailed carrot on the outside of his left wrist, thin black and grey utensils marching up the inside of his right forearm; whisk, knife, rolling pin, fork... 

They're old, worn, soft around the edges, but no way did Clint not see them. 

Like the man needed help being any more attractive... 

Clint is _so_ screwed. 

On the bright side he thinks he hides it well – at least May doesn't seem to notice that his head's a complete mess when he stumbles up the hallway from Coulson's office some time later. Or maybe she does, and just keeps it to herself. She's a hard read, a lot like Natasha, smooth-faced and stern, a no-nonsense type. That said, she does hand him a warm, paper carry-out bag with _Audrey's_ printed down the side before he leaves and offers him a solemn nod, which for her seems to be tacit approval. 

He walks all the way back to his apartment in a bit of a fugue, isn't even really present in his body until he gets there and locks the door behind him. He places the bag carefully onto the center of the island, sits down and stares at the delicate, curving script and takes stock of his limbs, his fingers and his toes, flexing each one and experiencing the dull ache slowly blossoming in his lower leg. Part of it is the walk on the hard New York City sidewalks, but part of it is definitely psychological, a reaction to the anxiety and the distress. It's nothing too unbearable, nowhere even near his threshold really, so he leaves it alone and just breathes through the low-level pain. 

He should put it up, and he will later. 

He's got a _job._

It stuns him – even when he'd stepped into _Audrey's_ that morning he hadn't thought he'd be coming back out employed. Halfway through the interview he'd been _sure_ he wouldn't be. Hell, he'd even tried to get up and walk out in the middle, just to spare himself the indignity of being escorted out by security. 

But Phil Coulson... 

He'd just sat him back down, gave him a minute to catch the breath he hadn't realized he'd lost and get his thoughts back in working order... 

He hadn't meant to blab all that. 

Christ he'd practically spilled his entire life's sob story right there onto the man's lap, a complete stranger who didn't know him from any nutcase in off the street. Way to sell yourself Barton – verbal incontinence, non-existent boundaries, obvious emotional issues. Add in the physical limitations and the drug use and the fucked up headspace two days out of ten and he's a real prize. Only way it could have been worse was if he'd thrown in the whole elementary school drop-out thing, the raised-by-circus-wolves thing. 

Shit, he'd very nearly done that. 

Stupid, because he doesn't talk about his past, his parents or the orphanage or Barney and Trick and the Swordsman. 

Stupid. 

But Coulson didn't kick him out. Didn't _call him out._ Just said something about _Audrey's_ being former-military and a home away from home and he wants that. Wants it suddenly and fiercely and without realizing that it was something that had been missing from his life before. 

It's a fucking roller coaster – commiseration because he _does_ believe that on some level Coulson understands, sympathy because he clearly has ghosts of his own still haunting him, guilt because the man's voice had cracked when he said his wife's name and Clint had been sitting there thinking how pretty his eyes were and marveling over the fact that something about this man pulls at him like he's never felt before. 

He makes a damn fool of himself but Coulson doesn't laugh, just bares his own scars – turnabout being fair play – and hires him anyway. 

Offers him a job and an outlet that he desperately needs, and the chance at something more that he hadn't even known he wanted. 

It's too much too soon – he feels like he's come to know this man better in thirty minutes than he knew Tash in thirty days, and it's all too deep and personal. It makes him shiver, down his spine, in the pit of his belly, makes him feel like he needs to back up. He laughs, he jokes, he flirts – that's his MO – but he doesn't share himself, he doesn't _trust,_ not anymore. Not like that anyway. 

The physical attraction he can deal with, that's just a thing. 

He's hot, he's Clint's type, he's a damn Army Ranger for god's sake, what's not to like? 

The rest, the emotional shit, the weird urge he's got to curl up on his ratty purple couch and _talk_ to him is... uncomfortable. 

Almost makes him want to stay away. 

But he's got a job now, and an appointment to come back on Wednesday to pick up his uniform and go over the logistics shit, the paperwork and the list of tasks and the direct deposit. He can still back out, and even though he doesn't really want to it's a comfort to him knowing that he can. 

Pushing to his feet, Clint gasps and bites his lip against the pain in his leg, hobbles to the couch to grab his laptop off the coffee table. He's limping on the short walk back to the island, knows he should spark up because all this thinking, all this dwelling in the anxiety is just going to make it worse but doesn't want to. The to-go bag catches his eye as he sits back down and opens the lid of the computer and it almost seems like the damn thing is laughing at him, so while he boots up Google his reaches inside and pulls the Styrofoam container out for a look-see. 

There are crepes inside, still warm, fragrant like apple pie, stuffed with sticky sweet granny smiths and sprinkled with crunchy almond granola and honey and just the smell of it makes Clint's mouth water. He can't remember eating since the short ribs with Nat the other day, can't remember wanting to, but he's grabbing a fork before he knows what he's doing. The first bite is sharp and tart and sweet and spiced with cinnamon, the apples tender with just a bit of crisp, crunchy, toasty granola on top and he hates himself for shoveling in three more bites in quick succession. 

It feels like giving in, like ceding defeat. 

Sweet, delicious defeat. 

He doesn't know that he cares. 

He savors the rest slowly while he does a little more research on the computer, on the actual restaurant this time instead of just the chef behind it. He peruses the menu, takes note of the hours of operation, wonders about what shifts he'll work and what training he'll get, but more than anything he wonders how he's going to survive this without getting fat or losing a couple of fingers to distraction.


	6. Chapter 6

"How does that make you feel?" 

Scoffing, Phil aims a narrow-eyed look at his therapist and slouches lower into the corner of the hideous paisley couch he's now so terribly familiar with. He hates that question, finds it pat, rote, _irritating,_ but one of the biggest issues he's still working through is giving in to his emotions, actually experiencing them instead of shutting down, allowing others to see instead of keeping them all bottled up and shoved into their neat little boxes. 

"Angry mostly," he admits heavily. "Annoyed." 

Gallagher – Dr. Adam Gallagher, but I answer to most anything – doesn't reply, instead waiting patiently for Phil to elaborate. He's good, knows when he needs to push and when he needs to back off, and that was really the only reason Phil had stuck with the whole therapy thing in the beginning. Well, that and his crippling fear, the anxiety that made day to day functioning nearly impossible, the absolute necessity of improving. 

He's come a long way. 

Huffing again, Phil shifts for the third time in as few minutes, sitting up and leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands, scrubbing his fingers through his thinning hair in frustration. 

"You seem awfully anxious tonight." 

"Yes," he growls down at his shoes, biting back the sharp _'no shit'_ he'd rather offer. 

Of course he's anxious, this _is_ a damned emergency session after all. 

He hadn't had to call in one of those in months. 

"It just feels like a setback," he complains, trying to keep most of the whine out of his voice. "It _is_ a setback." 

"Explain." 

"I was doing well. We've cut back to every other week, I haven't been triggered by anything in twenty-six days, I..." 

"Progress is a process Phil," Gallagher reminds him in that calm, flat voice Phil inexplicably finds so soothing. "Setbacks are expected. This _is_ the best you've been so far. What's your next step?" 

"Do even better next time," he huffs, only a little petulantly. 

He has to admit it's a good tactic. 

While Skye goes to a different therapist, Gallagher is kept well informed of her progress and all her little ups and downs, the entirety of the Coulson family tragedy, and the clever bastard's not above using Phil's daughter to get through his own stubborn ideals. Small, achievable goals, always improving, never beating yourself up when you _do_ inevitably stumble – these are the keys to Skye's therapy and they work well for her. Phil supports and enforces those steps, sees the benefits and the progress she's making, so it's impossible for him to scoff or to shake his head when Gallagher intentionally employs the same tactics in his own sessions. 

"Anger and annoyance are legitimate reactions Phil," Gallagher offers, and Phil can't stop himself from ticking the therapeutic technique off the mental list he keeps – _emotional validation._ "The important thing is understanding why you're experiencing those emotions and developing an acceptable..." 

"An acceptable method of processing them," Phil finishes. 

Yeah, he knows. 

That's sort of why he's here. 

"So why does this man throw you so much?" 

Phil feels his cheeks heat and knows he's blushing hard. For the first time in more than a year he balks at giving his therapist an honest answer, which seems incredibly stupid. Gallagher has seen him at his absolute worst, has seen him sweat and panic and puke, seen him sobbing and snotty and shaking, knows the darkest shadows and largest fears that haunt the inside of Phil's head. 

Sexual attraction seems like the smallest of things to admit to. 

"It feels like betrayal," he finally confesses, the words coming out in a raw, hoarse whisper. "To me, to him, to... to _her._ I..." 

"You're attracted to him." 

He doesn't sound surprised, though really, how could he not be? Phil's been so adamant thus far; it's not that he's been avoiding relationships or tamping down his reactions out of fear or guilt, it's just that it... well, it just simply hasn't happened for him since Audrey. If his visceral, physical reaction to Clint Barton had stunned him silly, how could his admission to same not stun his therapist? He'd hated that part of his therapy the most, had been sharp and harsh when made to talk about his past, about his wife and their relationship and his potential for finding the same kind of connection with anyone else again. More than anything else, _that_ subject will make him go silent and sullen and angry quickly and coldly. 

But Gallagher doesn't give anything away – a trait that normally Phil would admire. He's not surprised, or judgmental, or concerned. It's just a quiet statement of fact, made out loud to help the conversation along where he's struggling to find the words. 

It still brings all that bitter anger and irritation surging back to the fore. 

"It's _stupid,"_ he snarls abruptly, folding his arms over his chest when Gallagher shoots him a look. "I don't even know him. I don't..." 

"You don't, or you just haven't so far?" 

Eyes stinging, Phil curses under his breath, then, at his therapist's encouragement, curses louder. 

"It scares me," he says finally, when he's done shouting and is feeling remarkably but unsurprisingly better for it. "I never thought I'd..." 

"You know it doesn't change things Phil," Gallagher says gently. "It doesn't change how you felt about your wife, or how you _still_ feel about her." 

"Yes it does. It makes it... I don't know, it makes it... _real_ somehow, like..." 

"I thought we'd gotten well past the first stage of grief." 

"Fuck you, I know she's not coming back," he grumbles miserably, his breath hitching. 

He's right – Phil _has_ gotten past the denial, the what-ifs, but that doesn't mean it's not still hard to say. 

"Then who would it hurt, to let yourself open up to someone? That _is_ the other part of this isn't it?" 

"You know it is," he sniffs, clearing his throat. _"Clint Barton._ He's... he's an obstacle, a challenge, one I don't need but that I'm throwing up into my own path anyway." 

"Do you think that maybe that's because a part of you feels you're ready to overcome it? To test yourself?" 

Well. 

He hadn't thought of it like that. 

"You've done extremely well with the challenges you've faced thus far Phil," Gallagher insists, a reminder he often ends their sessions with. "It's easy to discount that when things get rough, but if we did that all the time no one would get anywhere in life. You're still here, you're still moving forward, you're raising a strong, beautiful little girl. You _will_ have troubles... but is this one really any more difficult than those you've already overcome?" 

"Well when you say it like that it sounds stupid," Phil huffs, feeling a weight lift off his chest, the way it always does when he recognizes the wrap-up of a therapy session. He likes Gallagher and his somewhat unorthodox methods, yes, and his therapy sessions are incredibly helpful, but they're still emotionally exhausting. 

"Not at all," the man argues easily, setting aside his notepad and getting to his feet. "You're asking for help, seeking out the things you need to move forward and improve your life. That's more than many people are willing to do, more than _you_ were willing to do, in the beginning. It's not an easy thing." 

"Really not," he chuckles bitterly, standing up himself and shaking the man's hand. "But I'll try anyway." 

"All I can ask," Gallagher grins. "Go home Phil. Relax. Play with your daughter and take one of those Xanax I know you don't ever take, try to get some _sleep._ I'll see you at our next session." 

"Sure," he nods, quietly accepting the firm reminder to keep up with his homework, another favorite technique Gallagher liked to employ. "Thanks again for fitting me in." 

"No problem." 

It's a long drive home.

**AVAVA**

"Daddy!"

Skye comes barreling toward him as soon as he steps through the door, colliding with his legs and nearly taking him out at the knees. He can't blame her as much as his joints protest - she's terribly perceptive for her age and had known something wasn't quite right when he'd left earlier that evening. He'd explained of course, told her he was feeling 'cloudy' - her apt but adorably sad term for the anxiety and depression she too sometimes feels – and that he was going to see Dr. Gallagher for an appointment. She'd nodded, solemn, sullen, and silent, and it had nearly broken his heart, but to hear her call for him now... 

It makes his heart sing to hear her voice. 

"Hey princess," he smiles, gathering her close for a loose hug before letting her squirm away again. She reacts just as poorly to he does being restrained. "Did you have a good time with Uncle Nick?" 

His little girl just nods and Phil can't help but stare at her, all of six years old. She's tiny, dark-haired and dark-eyed, pale and petite and haunted, always haunted, even dressed in her sparkly pink nightgown, her stuffed frog tucked beneath her elbow. She looks terribly like her mother, something for which he both thanks and curses his gods. 

"You were good right?" he cajoles, hoping, praying for the verbal response he needs tonight but knows he won't get. 

That's another thing he's still working on. 

He'd never forgive himself for pushing _her_ too hard, just for his own self-healing. 

"Good as gold, weren'tcha Tremors?" Nick rumbles, emerging from the kitchen still wearing his black leather trench coat. "And all ready for bed." 

Phil swallows hard – nighttime routine was always mommy-daughter time, and they've both had difficulty adjusting to that, to finding a new ritual of their own. Days when Skye's been quiet, days when she refuses to speak are the hardest, and have ended in screaming, biting, fighting, sobbing fits on more than one occasion. 

Tonight though, tonight she takes pity on him, takes his hand silently and tugs him down the hallway toward her bedroom, where her Tatiana nightlight casts a pale green glow around the room. The Princess and the Frog was her favorite and her room had been decorated accordingly, a happy, sunny space as safe as Phil could make it for her. No door hung in the frame, it was never fully dark what with the light and the uncovered windows, and there's a baby monitor mounted on the side of the dressed - a point of contention between Phil, Gallagher, and Skye's child psychologist Ms. Debra. 

They say she doesn't need it, that she's growing up and slowly learning to solve her own simple problems, to self soothe. 

He says that after hours trapped upside down in the back of a car, screaming and crying futilely for her parents, he'll never let her go unheard again. 

Crawling into bed Skye allows the coverlet to be draped lightly around her shoulders, adjusting Anthony the Frog beneath her arm. His heart twinges painfully in his chest when she tips her face up for a goodnight kiss; it's always hit or miss that she will. He hasn't yet worked up the courage to read to her, and she hasn't worked up the courage to ask him, but he hopes, one day. For now this is enough, and he cups her face gently between his hands before pressing light, fleeting kisses to her cheeks and forehead. 

"Daddy loves you baby," he murmurs in her ear, holding her as close as he dares, cheek to cheek. "I'm very proud of you." 

He is too, and he makes sure he tells her, every night, even if he hates the fact that his entire life, _their_ entire life has become a series of necessary validations, an endless cycle of teaching points and therapy both inside and outside of a mental health office. It's exhausting, and it feels like too much, but needs must. 

Clearly exhausted herself from her own day at school - always more trying on Fridays he's noticed, when the other first graders are rowdy and noisy and boisterous in anticipation of the weekend – Skye drifts off before he's even stepped back into the hallway. Another small mercy; he doesn't think he would handle one of her tantrums tonight. Well, he _would,_ of course he would, but it would wreak hell on his own psyche and leave him a mess in the morning. His insomnia is always worse nights he has to sit up making promises that everything is all right, that she's safe and she can sleep, that he'll hear her if she wakes up and that he'll be there in the morning, promises that all feel empty in the harsh and quiet dark. 

She sleeps. 

Stepping back out into his gleaming gourmet kitchen, he finds Fury waiting for him at the long, narrow island, a bottle of Scotch on the marble top. It's not his - he doesn't keep alcohol in the apartment anymore but for a bit of cooking wine, too afraid of tumbling to the bottom of any bottle – and Nick knows this, respects and supports it. At the same time he has an uncanny knack for knowing when Phil really does need the brief burn of a good drink, a single glass neat, rich and malty. It settles his nerves enough that he manages to actually enjoy it, to sigh heavily and lean into the man's grip when he squeezes his shoulder tight. 

"You gonna fire him?" 

Snorting, Phil shoots the last of his drink in one big, uncultured gulp and makes the decision he'd thought he'd already made. 

"No."


	7. Chapter 7

Wednesday morning comes far too soon and Clint talks himself in and out of his new job a dozen times between that first interview and this moment. He's standing in the middle of his apartment wearing the new black chef's cargoes everyone at _Audrey's_ wears, tucked marginally neatly into his fully laced combat boots. He's to be given a chef's coat so he's completed the ensemble with a plain old cotton t-shirt, purple of course, and his own leather jacket. His teeth are brushed, his hair is mostly tamed, and he feels... 

Not nearly ready for this. 

In fact, if it weren't for Natasha being home, judging him silently from the corner of the couch, he probably would've chickened out on the way to the door. 

She is there though, no doubt for that exact reason, and her silent stare is more than enough of a threat to chase him out the door. 

He walks. 

He shouldn't but he does. 

He should take his bike instead – it would be slower probably, and more of a pain in the ass, but less of a pain in his hip and his knee and his thigh. 

It's been a pretty good day though, as far as that goes. He'd woken up fine, hasn't gone achy yet and that's more good luck than he'd thought he could hope for. He doesn't think he'll get a full day's work today so he thinks he'll be fine, but he can't be sure and really, better safe than sorry, but... 

He walks. 

He makes it to _Audrey's_ with ten minutes to spare and isn't really surprised to find most of the staff already on the floor hustling. That's how a good restaurant runs he understands, hard work and overtime and dedication and... and somehow it feels a lot like the Marines even though it's nothing like that at all. As he stands just inside the door, watching men and women beat feet back and forth across the front seating area, he remembers though. 

Remembers what Fury had said, what Coulson had explained. 

These men and women, they all have stories. 

They all come from somewhere. 

Most of them? 

Most of them are military. 

He can see it in the way they move, the set of their shoulders, the efficiency, and it comforts him in ways it shouldn't, like being back in boot camp. 

"Barton." 

Clint starts, spooked when Melinda May appears silently beside him from god-knows where, and he makes a mental not to never let her meet Natasha. 

"May." 

The corner of her mouth ticks at the greeting, like she appreciates Clint remembering even if he's still uncomfortable with the familiarity of the name. 

"Thanks for being punctual – we appreciate that around here. Ok, so we've got Tripp doubling down today to free up Reyes; she's going to get you all set up with the paperwork back in the office, get you a uniform, and do a run-down of her basic duties. Then, if you're up to it, she'll bring you out on the floor." 

"Sounds good," he replies, but he has to gulp down the rock in his throat first. 

"Excellent." May looks him up and down, nods once. "You'll do. Coulson says you'll mostly be on bussing and prep so you won't be out front much, if at all. We're fairly lax as long as you're neat and safe – keep the jacket buttoned and your boots laced and you'll be fine." 

"Cool. Um... will I be working under you ma'am or..." 

"God no," she scoffs, lifting the binder under her arm and scribbling something down on the margins, reaching for the walkie clipped to her belt. "I don't go into the kitchens anymore." 

Yeah, Clint kinda figured. She's dressed more nicely than anyone else he's seen so far – form-fitting black slacks and a charcoal grey blouse – and he knows she runs the hostess stand. That though, that was a little more... intense than he'd expected to hear out of the woman who had always appeared so locked down. He arches an eyebrow in question but she just shrugs, clicks a button on her radio and does some more scribbling, then waves without looking up to a curly-haired blonde who comes running... well, _waddling_ up. 

"Reyes, this is Barton," May explains, still not sparing them a glance. "You got this?" 

"Got it," the blonde chirps, and then May's abandoning him to a hugely pregnant woman who he's... kind of a little bit worried about. 

"Are you um...?" 

"Absolutely ready to get off my feet even though my day's just started? Yes!" she declares, and then she's grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him along, across the front of the restaurant where there are chairs coming down off the tables and past the kitchen into the back. He absolutely does not look for Coulson through the glass in front of the stoves or through the gap in his open office door, focuses instead on the lady bouncing along beside him like... well, like the toddler she'll have in a few years. 

"All right, Barton was it?" 

"Just Clint's fine," he mumbles as she grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down into one of three chairs in the little closet of a room she's brought him into. 

"Sure." Flicking on the computer in front of him, she quickly boots up a program that looks like it came out of the early 90's and drops into the chair beside him. "Ok, so we're going to get everything set up here; taxes, direct deposit..." 

"The fun stuff." 

"Yup!" she replies with a grin, and then suddenly her bare feet have been plopped into his lap. 

Clint arches an eyebrow but she ignores him – when Coulson had said they were like family at _Audrey's_ he hadn't thought he'd meant it quite so literally, quite so... so soon. 

"Ok, so here's your ID and password – go ahead and type them in and you can change it later," she instructs, and Clint does as he's told, returning his attention to the screen. "Perfect. Alright, go ahead and fill in the rest." 

It takes maybe twenty-five minutes to get through it all – Clint's got this stuff on lock after all the court bullshit he'd had to go through after the settlement with the Marines. During that time Reyes takes her feet back, files her fingernails, re-twists her ponytail, and eats half a roll of tums. He can feel her reading over his shoulder but she doesn't try to make small talk or comment on what little tragic history she catches him typing in, which he appreciates. 

Once it's over, she takes him out of the tiny room to a larger one in the back, a long, narrow room that Clint suspects is some sort of banquet room for large, reserved parties. It's dominated by a heavy oak table, twenty feet if it's a yard, lots of comfortable chairs, and she sits him down at one when she sees he's looked his fill. 

"Dining room," she says needlessly, magicking a folder out of nowhere. _"Audrey's_ is open Monday through Friday for lunch, eleven to four. We close for two hours, reopen for dinner at six, close again for the night at midnight." 

"Interesting business plan," he comments mildly, because he'd checked the hours of operation but doesn't really understand them. 

"A lot of the employees here have young families," Reyes explains, making a vague gesture toward her massive belly. "The Boss too. Gives us all mornings off, and two hours around dinner time for kids if we have them. The break's good for resetting too. I've worked other places; this one runs a hell of a lot smoother because of those two hours." 

"Smart." 

"Definitely. Saturday's we're open ten to two for brunch – that's usually our busiest day. We don't serve any breakfast items during the week so don't let anyone try to con you into it." 

"Sunday's closed?" 

"Yeah, but..." 

She pauses, looks at him very suddenly with a very intense look that tells Clint she is absolutely ready to be a mom. 

"And this is an important but," she warns. "Sundays Coulson opens up the place to employees. Six pm sharp, he does dinner, just for us. You can bring your SO or your kids, but it's... it's a family thing. All of us, together. It's not mandatory but it's important, understand?" 

"Um... yeah." 

He doesn't though. 

Not really. 

Doesn't understand how that's wise in a business sense, doesn't understand why the knowledge that Coulson feeds his friends and his family every week hits him in the chest like a wrecking ball. Doesn't understand why it makes him want to run, to lock himself up in his apartment and find an excuse not to come, while at the same time makes him... _want._

It's been a long time since he's had anything like that – he doesn't know if he knows how to do it. 

"Good." 

Startled from his reverie, Clint jumps to his feet when Reyes prods him up, takes the chef's jacket she pushes into his hands. It's grey but several shades paler than the one Coulson had worn, more slate than charcoal. At the woman's prompting he shrugs it on, only gets half the buttons done before she's doing up the rest for him. 

"Big enough?" she asks, stepping back so Clint can stretch his arms a bit. "Wasn't sure about the shoulders." 

"No, it's fine." 

"Good. I've got you two more and if one gets ruined you can fill out a form for another one. You'd be surprised how fast we go through laundry around here." 

"Bout as fast as I go through socks?" he deadpans. 

Reyes shoots him a look, laughs. 

"Sense of humor, good," she praises. "That'll keep you alive around here. Come on, let's show you where everything is." 

He doesn't feel ready to step out onto that floor, into that kitchen. He thinks he manages to hide it pretty well, but Reyes seems to sense it, or at the very least guess it out of nothing. She takes him back up the hallway, around the back so they don't have to cross the dining room, shows him the back alley where the dumpsters are and the tiny parking lot behind it, the heavy emergency exit door that most of the employees come and go by. Next is a sort of break room/coat room with a row of tall, narrow lockers, one of which he's given to stash his things in. There's an employee fridge, a couple of folding tables, and several comfy-looking chairs, all in all a nicer space than most employees would afford their workers.

The time clock is mounted to the wall near the door and he gets a quick lesson in how to use it, typing in his employee identification number to register his attendance. It beeps cheerfully, and then Reyes is clapping him on the shoulder, giving him game face. 

"Ready to see the kitchen?" 

He's not, he's still not but he nods and follows her manfully toward the _pop, sizzle, clatter_ that's already seemed to have sunken into his psyche. They go through from the back, the kitchen stretching out before them stretching toward the long wall of glass that opens out to the restaurant, all gleaming steel and copper and cheerful shouting, all controlled chaos, and he loves and hates it immediately in equal measures. 

"Ok, so dish is back here." 

Blinking, jolted out of the heart-pounding freeze of being entirely overwhelmed by just how _much_ there is, Clint turns away from the beautiful moving mess of it all and follows Reyes to an alcove along the back, partially cordoned off from the rest. 

"You won't have to run the machine – that's mostly Javie's job," his guide explains, waving to the young man half buried inside the hulking mechanical thing, his sleeves rolled nearly to his shoulders as he pulls damp, steaming plates from the washer. He grins and tosses her a nod but his hands stay busy and Clint doesn't blame him – he'd hate to have to stick his hands inside that thing. "If you do a bit of bussing this is where you come through. In the door, dirty dish goes here, and the empty tubs and trays get stacked," Reyes continues, pointing things out as she goes. 

Clint nods, ignores the prickling feeling that creeps up the back of his neck. He's a sniper, a Marine – he knows when he's being watched – but he also knows how to ignore it when he needs to, how not to let on and go about his business without giving anything away. 

"So that's what I'm _not_ doing," he says, following Reyes along the edge of the kitchen to the long, gleaming table at the back, slightly apart from the rest and fronted by a towering steel rack, filled with tubs and topping a cold-cooler. "Time to show me what I _will_ be doing?" 

"Right to the chase – that's good too," she says with a shark-toothed grin, rubbing her hands together like an evil genius before pointing across the room. "Excellent. Ok, so there's the cooler and the deep freeze; lights to the left, doors won't lock from the inside so don't worry about that. Jasper does inventory and May does the ordering, you've met them both right?" 

"In passing; Jasper's the one with the glasses right?" he asks, remembering the little tickle his Spidey-senses had given him around the harried man. 

"Kinda spazzy?" Reyes nods, like she understands the vibe he'd gotten. "Yup, that's him. He's Coulson's sous – that's second in command – so if he's out, Jasper's boss. He can be a little weird sometimes, but he's good. Anyway, orders usually come in on Monday and Thursday early, which is fine cause we're rarely slammed then. The truck guys will unload but I usually put everything away where it goes, make sure it's all there. I'll show you the stock and inventory forms tomorrow. Once you've checked it all May signs off on it." 

"I can do that." 

"Bet you can," Reyes laughs eyeing his chest and shoulders blatantly before patting her burgeoning belly. "Easier than me anyway. Tripp's been helping me lately so if you have questions you can always ask him. Tripp's... hmm, oh! There he is, that one." 

Clint scans the crowded kitchen, locates the man she's pointing out; dark-skinned, bright eyed, happy grin as he moves easily back and forth in front of the stove. He looks up when Reyes shouts his name, smiles, hands a whisk off to the woman next to him and crosses the kitchen deftly, drying his hands as he goes. 

"This is Clint Barton," Reyes introduces, and Clint is pleased with the man's handshake, neither shying nor crushing. "He's taking over for me while I'm off with the sprog." 

"About time Reyes," Tripp chuckles, chucking the woman under the chin. "You need to get off your feet." 

"Tell me about it. So listen, I figured we'd walk him through everything tomorrow, do the stocking and the prep, and then if he has any questions he can ask you?" 

"Absolutely man, no problem," he says with an easy shrug. 

"I'm a quick learner," Clint says, vaguely uneasy as he shifts on his feet, but Tripp just shakes his head. 

"Don't even worry about it," he replies, "We all help out around here. We're family at _Audrey's_ – you need something just let anybody know. If they can't get it for you they'll know who can." 

"Thanks." 

"Sure thing. Gotta go, cutie pie," Tripp says, dropping Reyes a wink, and then he's ducking back to the stove where his coworker is scowling at him and managing three spoons at once with only two hands. 

"They're all like that." Clint blinks, looks at Reyes who is watching him with a bit too much understanding. "You'll get it." 

Clint licks his lips, glances across the kitchen where he's finally caught sight of Coulson, who's just stepped back in from the dining room and is looking over a young woman's shoulder where she's wiping the rim of a plate ready for service, making a neat, efficient gesture before squeezing her shoulder and moving on. 

"Yeah," he replies, his voice a bit too rough to be casual. "I'm starting too."


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the week passes quickly, and not all that well. Phil feels harried and rushed through it, in a way he never likes to feel because he really does enjoy his job, loves cooking and loves _Audrey’s._ He knows what it is, but that knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better, because it’s the looming meeting with the production team of _Restaurant Wars_ on Saturday that has him so on edge. 

He’d regretted his decision as soon as he’d sent Nick out the door with the papers, scrawled his signature across the bottom line in agreement to the terms of the contract. He doesn’t think there’s anything that could make this easier, make it feel like the _right_ decision instead of the only one left, so he squares his shoulders and pushes through it, until Saturday rolls around and he winds up having a panic attack on the subway as Fury takes him in to the filming offices. 

It’s mild, thank god – they aren’t always – and he manages to mostly keep it to himself, even if he’s sweaty and shaking by the time they get off, climb back up to street level and head down the block toward midtown. His suit feels tight and constricting across his shoulders and he wishes for his light chef’s jacket and t-shirts, but he _needs_ this, they all need this, and he can’t afford to screw it up. 

He still has to pause outside the gilt-and-glass doors of the building to pull himself together before he can step inside. Staring down his reflection, he sees a man who looks pale and limp, like a stiff breeze could knock him over, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He never used to be like this – he was a Ranger for christ’s sake – and he hates that he’s like this now, weak and shivery and unsure. He has to physically pull the scraps of his confidence up around his shoulders like armor now, and even as he steps inside into the air-conditioned lobby, it rattles with chinks and loose straps. 

He’s suddenly reminded very strongly of the new hire – Clint Barton – and the way he’d walked around the restaurant this past week, unsure of himself but watching things like a hawk, learning quickly with a hard, determined look that spoke of a scrapper, a back-alley fighter. The set of his shoulders and the mild murder face he wore spoke of an inner strength that Phil envied, especially since it was obvious that the young man was positively terrified. 

_‘He doesn’t need to be,’_ Phil muses as he and Nick take the stairs to the fifth floor, himself unable to tolerate the enclosed steel trap that is an elevator. _'He’s doing well.’_

He is too, picking things up with remarkable speed and even saving them a couple hundred dollars when he’d spotted a miscalculation on the inventory sheets, his first time out. He seemed to be opening up to the rest of the staff slowly, and thus far Phil hadn’t heard any complaints. 

Granted, it had only been three days, but if May or Sitwell took issue with a new hire he would have typically heard about it by now. 

“You ready?” 

Phil blinks, startled out of his musings to find that he and Nick are standing in front of a closed door, all oak, brass, and polish. 

He swallows hard – he's not ready, he’ll never be ready – but he supposes in this instance he doesn’t really have a choice but to fake it until he makes it. He needs the money if he’s going to keep his restaurant afloat, and really, it’s so much more than that. It’s his livelihood, his wife’s legacy, his daughter’s inheritance, and that’s to say nothing of the cadre of veterans who rely on him for a job and a safe place to be. 

He can do this. 

He can do this for his employees, and for Skye and for his late wife, and he can... 

He can do it for himself. 

He has to. 

Taking a deep breath, he blows it back out slow and nods, reaching for the door.

**AVAVA**

Two hours later, Phil walks out of the conference room and straight into a bathroom stall, dry heaving until his eyeballs hurt. Nick waits patiently outside, leaning his large frame back against the door so that no one else can come in, as always standing guard. Phil leans over the toilet panting until he can catch his breath again, spits, stands up, and exits for the sink. Washing his hands, he splashes cold water onto his face and dabs at the back of his neck, paper towel fluttering as his hands shake and he scrupulously avoids his own reflection.

“You did just fine Cheese,” Fury rumbles, making him laugh a little hysterically. “Hey. You did.” 

“That was the easy part,” he groans, sighing as he wads the paper up and tosses it into the trashcan. 

“Maybe. But you just earned yourself ten grand, just for agreeing to film the damn thing. Now there’s a perk I didn’t see coming.” 

“It’s coverage, in case we lose business with all the cameras in the place,” he explains, ever pragmatic. “And we might.” 

“I doubt that,” Fury scoffs. “You’ve got the most loyal damn bunch of regulars I’ve ever seen, and a place like New York, people are gonna be coming in off the sidewalk and ordering just to get their five seconds. Wouldn’t be surprised if foot traffic goes _up.”_

“Thank you, for that sparkling recommendation,” Phil deadpans. “Come on, lets... get back.” 

He spends the subway ride home mulling over what he’s just done. The producers had explained all the timelines and things that would need to be filmed; six episodes, two challenges apiece over the course of a three-week filming period, each focusing on a theme whether that be type of food served such as breakfast versus appetizer versus entrée, or a mystery ingredient to be incorporated into multiple different dishes. That part he’s not worried about – he knows he’s a good chef and he actually can cook from a much larger repertoire than that that is served at _Audrey’s_ \- but the rest... 

The rest is what terrifies him. 

The producers had tip-toed around it of course. 

No one had wanted to actually say it out loud. 

That would be crass, rude, unforgivably cruel, and yet staying silent had almost seemed worst, disrespectful in the darkest way. 

He’s seen the show before, as much as he’d teased Nick for watching it. It’s a well-shot program, organized and interesting, but what makes it great is that it doesn’t only focus on the food. The whole point of it is to promote small restaurants and family-owned eateries, and they do this by balancing the competition with backstories, filling in with interviews of the chef, his employees, and his customers. Phil will get glowing reviews, he knows, but what people really want, what the _producers_ really want, is the story of the crash. 

Swallowing hard, Phil blinks back the sudden sting of tears and clears his throat, ignoring Fury when he cocks an eyebrow in his direction. He knows he’s going to have to give them something. His restaurant _is_ named after his late wife after all – there's no possible way he can get out of it. Makes him wonder how much he _will_ be able to get away with, how clipped and short he can be. God knows he could recite some of those hideous news articles well enough off the top of his head. 

Mostly he’s just worried about Skye. 

The last thing he wants is for someone to be sticking a camera in her face and demanding she talk about her dead mother. 

He’d tried to get the contract written so that she would be left out of the filming altogether, but as his only blood family and his only child, that hadn’t really floated. He gets it, he does – they don’t want him to come across as a cold-hearted bastard by completely ignoring the existence of his daughter – but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s become a fiercely over-protective man, nor that he jealously hoards the few words Skye chooses to gift him with in any given week. 

He’ll have to talk to her, explain what’s going on. Perhaps she’ll want to stay with Nick and Maria most days, or at least hang out upstairs instead of in his office where she usually plays after school. God forbid she get ambushed on her way through the kitchens to find him by a noisy television crew, or worse, a member of Hydra. 

“Hydra,” he mutters scornfully as he and Nick step off the subway once more, only a block from home. 

He certainly doesn't relish the thought of competing against _them._

The upscale evening bar and restaurant sat directly across the street from _Audrey’s,_ and Phil had plenty of reasons to dislike his neighbors. Not only did Hydra occasionally host Saturday night specials that got way out of hand, bringing in the wrong clientele with too much cheap booze and … _in-house entertainment,_ they had started putting out dishes that looked suspiciously similar to some of Phil’s own specialties. After the very first one had gone up on their menu approximately six months ago, they’d seen a huge upswing in traffic that only got bigger whenever they added an item that had very nearly been copied straight from Phil’s own recipe book. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Fury muses, as they step back into _Audrey’s_ amid the hustle of the place being cleaned up and shut down after the day’s brunch service. “Finally figure out how they’re stealing your food.” 

“We don’t know that they are for sure,” Phil argues halfheartedly as they climb the stairs to the apartment. 

“Bullshit. You know the chefs over there can’t cook worth a damn.” 

“I just... don’t like to think that someone here would...” 

“I know Phil. You gonna tell ‘em all at the dinner tomorrow?” 

“I suppose I should. Better to get it out of the way, so that I can’t change my mind.” 

“There’s the spirit,” Fury laughs, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye open, see if any of them get squirrelly.” 

“Probably for the best,” Phil says flatly as he opens the door and steps into his entryway. “You’ve only got the one after all.” 

“Shut up.” 

Rolling his eyes, Phil walks into the living room where Maria is sitting in an armchair, embroidering a curse word onto some pale pink fabric, Skye asleep on the couch next to her with SpongeBob down low in the background. Phil cocks an eyebrow, surprised she’s still on the embroidery after three whole months, but then, it does give her an excuse to stab something repeatedly with a sharp object. 

“Has she said anything?” he asks quietly, sitting down on the edge of the cushions and pulling a quilt up over his daughter. 

Maria looks at him with sad eyes and shakes her head no.

**AVAVA**

Heading down to the kitchens on Sunday afternoon is a welcome relief to the idleness of the morning. It had seemed to drag on forever what with the way it gave him time to mull over all the things that could go wrong with this hare-brained scheme, Skye being of absolutely no help as she still hasn’t broken her silence. He tries not to resent her for it – that's one of the focuses of _his_ therapy – and reminds himself that he shouldn’t be relying on his daughter for something like that anyway.

Besides, she likes the kitchen, and he supposes he couldn’t wish for more than that. 

He sits her up on a dented steel table that they don’t use for service anymore, specifically because she does like sitting on it more than on a chair when she watches him cook. She keeps a quilt in his office to kneel on, so that the hard metal surface doesn’t bruise her knobby little knees, and she usually brings a coloring book or a doll to play with, but more often than not she watches him work. She’s got her mother’s eyes, wide and dark and curious, and Phil gets choked up a lot when they do this, because they’d done it when they were three as well as two. 

Sometimes he can cajole her into helping. Today she washes her hands up to the elbows and helps him crush tomatoes, squeezing them between her fingers when using a masher would be a lot more efficient. She’s an incredibly tactile child for all her silence, and spaghetti is one of the few things she’ll eat half the time anymore, so she’s gotten pretty good at keeping most of the sauce in the bowl. He’d been terrified after the accident that the color red might trigger her, the splashy, gory mess of them, but she’s yet to show an aversion to such things, even when she wandered in on Phil and Trip butchering rabbit carcasses. 

She’s braver than he is in some ways. 

At least, she never looks at _him_ like she’s waiting for him to break down. 

Phil pours the tomatoes into a huge boiler pot and gets them onto the stove, adding oregano and bay leaf, salt and pepper. While Skye had been crushing the fruits he had minced and browned some mushrooms, garlic, and onion together with olive oil, and he adds that to the pot as well, narrating everything he does as he goes. 

They play music whenever they’re in the kitchen, jazz and classical and soft rock, but it’s become a habit for him to talk when they’re down here. He tries not to do it other times, tries not to constantly fill the silence she leaves standing and open, both because it’s exhausting and because both of their therapists discourage it. It’s ok for her to not have words, and how is she supposed to speak when he doesn’t leave her any room? He agrees with those things, but the kitchen had always been such a light, happy place, so full of conversation and laughter that he can’t bear the quiet no matter how hard he tries. 

Skye measures pasta carefully into a pot of boiling water under his watchful eye, then runs to the door to let in Nick and Maria when they knock on the glass. They come bearing bottles of wine and adult companionship, the latter of which Phil desperately needs, and they’re followed closely after by Tripp, Jasper, and May. The restaurant slowly fills up with friends and homey smells, and Phil is transferring the pasta between pots, tossing it with the tomato sauce when Clint Barton walks in. 

He’s surprised and he’s not by the young man’s presence. 

Not surprised that Reyes told him about family dinner, more surprised that he showed. 

Of course, Reyes is dragging him along by one arm, grinning and glowing with pregnancy as her husband booms with laughter, following in behind them, but he’s here. 

Phil supposes that’s what counts. 

There are a couple of kids, a couple of spouses, but plenty of food to go around. The others have brought salads and antipasto, and the table fills up quickly as he and Nick carry massive platters of spaghetti into the dining room. Phil goes back for serving forks, accepting handshakes and thumps on the back, grins and greetings as he goes. He’s turning around to come back when he’s confronted with the object of his pervious distress, clutching a large cake-carrier and chewing his lower lip so hard Phil’s surprised it doesn’t bleed. 

“Hey boss,” Barton says, clearing his throat when it comes out too tight. “Is it ok that I... I mean, Reyes said I should...” 

“Of course,” Phil answers, because it’s true and because he wants this, has always wanted Audrey’s to be a home. “You’ll always be welcome Clint. I’m glad you came.” 

“Oh. Um... thanks,” he mumbles, and Phil is fascinated to find that he’s blushing. “Um, I brought...” 

He doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. He cracks the lid of the cake-carrier and the amazing scent of fresh bread comes at him on a wave, four long, golden loaves of crusty French bread crammed inside. 

“Wow, that smells incredible,” he hums, leaning closer for another long sniff. “You didn’t say you could bake.” 

“Oh, I can’t, I mean... not really,“ Clint stumbles, raising one hand to rub the back of neck, nearly fumbling the container. “Not like you.” 

“Let’s hope not,” Phil snorts. “I can’t bake to save my life. That was...” 

Heart thumping against his chest, Phil’s grin fades and it’s his turn to clear his throat. 

“That was uh, that was my wife’s specialty,” he finishes with a wry twist of his mouth, and to his immense relief Barton just nods. “Anyway, come on. There will be a knife and some butter out there already – you'll be the talk of the table tonight.” 

Barton follows him into the dining room without a word, though he looks more like he’s walking to the firing squad. Phil understands the sentiment, even though for him these weekly meals are more like salvation. He sits down at the opposite end of the table from Phil, where Reyes has saved him a seat, and Phil lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

What follows is a meal like a hundred others they’ve had at _Audrey’s_ since it opened. It’s upbeat and loud, the food passed around the table family style as everyone chatters and gossips and jokes. Barton is introduced to the group as a whole, blushing and ducking furiously as Reyes holds him up proudly as her protégé, until Phil turns the tables on her to ask about the baby. Clint shoots a grateful look, and Phil makes sure to take a slice of the bread he’d baked that goes over like a house on fire. 

Skye is silent next to him, but she smiles when Nick rubs sauce off her cheek and she finishes everything on her plate.


End file.
